Sariwon

"According to intelligence from the diplomatic channel relayed from Beijing, the Yankees have already resolved to push up to Pyongyang. They've notified us that they'll ignore our warnings."

Peng Dehuai jabbed a callused finger at the map of the Korean Peninsula on the table. He stared silently at the map, his gaze lingering on the rugged mountainous region north of the Chunchon River Estuary—Myounghwasan and the Jeokyuryeong Mountains.

"Going head-to-head with the Americans on the plains would be madness." His thick finger traced along the contour lines of the mountains. "Our weapons are our two legs and the darkness. We advance through mountain paths where their tanks can't follow. Abandon the roads and seize the ridgelines."

Hong ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Xuezeng leaned over the map. "If the Americans somehow fortify defenses along the Pyongyang-Wonsan Line, our room to maneuver through the mountains and strike their rear will shrink."

"It'll shrink, but it won't disappear." Peng Dehuai picked up a pencil and circled the Deokcheon area north of Pyongyang. "The Americans won't hold the mountains. We break the weak link held by the Koreans on the east and the Taebaek Mountains." He tossed the pencil onto the table like discarding trash. "The Koreans have weaker firepower than the Americans and are vulnerable in defense."

Peng Dehuai's eyes flashed sharply. "Pour our forces through that gap and encircle the American main body."

Deng Hua swallowed dryly. "When do we set the crossing point?"

Peng Dehuai gazed out the window. Thick darkness blanketed the far side of the Yalu River. "The night after tomorrow. 1900 hours." The firm order slipped from between his lips. "All units move only at night. Hide in the forests during the day—no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fires under any circumstances."

Hong Xuezeng pulled out a notepad and scribbled down the directives. Scratch, scratch.

"How about rations? It's too far to haul food all the way down from Manchuria."

Peng Dehuai stroked his chin beard. "Each soldier packs a week's worth of roasted beans and rice powder in their knapsacks and crosses the river." His voice was ice-cold.

Outside the tent, military truck engines roared deafeningly. Vroom, vroom. It was the transport convoy ferrying Northeast Border Army troops to the Yalu River banks.

Peng Dehuai approached the window and peered through a crack in the glass. Thousands of soldiers in padded winter uniforms were climbing into truck beds. Slung over their shoulders were battered rifles and grenade pouches. Clink. The clash of weapons cut through the frigid night air.

This war will be harsher than the Long March. Peng Dehuai muttered inwardly. He clenched his fist, staring at the 260,000 soldiers who would soon shed blood on Korean soil.

"Comrade Commander."

Deng Hua called from behind him. "There's a personal letter from Chairman Mao in Beijing."

Peng Dehuai turned and took the yellowed envelope Deng Hua offered. Crumple. He tore it open and unfolded the letter paper. Mao Zedong's ink-brushed script brimmed with vigor.

Peng Dehuai crumpled the letter and tossed it into the brazier. Hiss. The paper ignited, turning to black ash. The smell of burning filled the room.

"I don't need political rhetoric. On the battlefield, only killing and being killed exist." Peng Dehuai stomped his boot on the floorboards with a thud and strode back to the table. "Summon the 38th Army group commander here immediately." He slapped his palm down on the area north of Pyongyang on the map. "I need to order the vanguard to increase their night march speed."

The dirt floor trembled. Rumble.

On a shallow ridgeline at the base of Guwol Mountain south of Sariwon, North Korean front commander Major General Kim Ung adjusted the focus on his binoculars. Through the lenses, gray mist lifted from the plains. Dew-kissed dry grass blades quivered with rhythmic vibrations. The acrid stench of gunpowder stung his nostrils. Kim Ung's jaw clenched tight.

A black pillar of smoke surged into view in the binocular lenses. Rumble. Dozens of U.S. M4 Sherman and M26 Pershing tanks churned the earth as they entered his field of vision.

"They're here, Comrade Commander." Chief of Staff Ri Yong-ho gulped dryly. His Adam's apple bobbed sharply. The shoulders of sixteen-year-old boy soldiers huddled in the trenches shook like aspen leaves. The muzzles of their worn Mosin-Nagant rifles clacked against the muddy ground.

Kim Ung placed his hand on his pistol grip. The cold leather cover pressed into his palm. "Relay to the battalion commanders: No firing until the American tanks enter 200-meter range. Aim the last anti-tank high-explosive rounds at their tracks."

His voice carried over the ridgeline on the wind. But Kim Ung's expectations missed the mark. The vanguard armored battalion of X Corps didn't turn toward the defensive line fronting Sariwon city. Screech. The lead Pershing tank swung its massive treads. The screech of steel on steel tore the air.

Dozens of tanks and 2.5-ton trucks accelerated en masse along the bypass road skirting Sariwon's outskirts. A massive wall of dust rose, swallowing the American column. Vroooom. The diesel engines' thunder filled the valley.

It was a maneuver that completely ignored the Sariwon defenses, punching straight north toward Pyongyang.

Ri Yong-ho's mouth gaped open. Kim Ung's fingers whitened on the binoculars.

"Those bastards are just blowing past the defensive line!" Ri Yong-ho shouted in panic.

The 15,000 infantry who had prepared for street fighting—piling barricades in alleys and burying mines—stood dumbfounded, chasing only the Americans' dust like dogs after a chicken.

Almond's X Corps knew no restraint. It was a mad speed war, bypassing enemy strongpoints to sever their rear.

U.S. infantry in the truck beds raked the North Korean trenches on the ridgeline with machine guns. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Tracer rounds sliced the morning sky and thudded into the earthen walls. Thump.

The head of the signalman prone beside Kim Ung exploded like a watermelon. Brains and blood mixed with mud, splattering Kim Ung's cheek. The fishy, sticky fluid trickled down his jawline.

Kim Ung roughly wiped it away with his uniform sleeve. "Send out the 1st Tank Battalion!" he bellowed, veins bulging. "Bite the heels of those fleeing American bastards! We can't let them waltz to Pyongyang like this!"

At his order, engine roars erupted from beneath camouflage nets behind the ridgeline. Crank, cough, rumble. They were the twenty patched-together old T-34 tanks Kim Ung had scraped from the rear and forcibly repaired. Rusty turrets swiveled, belching black smoke. The caterpillars lurched down the muddy slope. Crunch, crunch.

But the reformed American column was faster than expected. The twenty-odd T-34s pursued belatedly. Kim Ung watched the scene with hollow eyes. X Corps' dust cloud had already vanished beyond the northern horizon.

All that remained were 15,000 ragged infantry isolated in the Sariwon defensive line.

And about thirty minutes later...

The sun cast pale light through gray clouds. A massive army column approached along the road south of Sariwon. It was the U.S. Eighth Army.

"Those earlier bastards weren't the end of it..." Kim Ung muttered.

Major General Walker's main force reached the front of Sariwon along Highway 1. Walker, perched on his Jeep's hood, chomped on his cigar. Mud splatters on his helmet had dried like medals.

Walker raised his binoculars and scanned the North Korean trenches on the Sariwon ridgeline. Empty dirt pits without a single gun barrel in sight.

"That crazy son of a bitch Almond." Walker grumbled, exhaling cigar smoke. "I told him to blow past the defensive line, and he goes around the outskirts and runs off. He's gone berserk to plant his flag in Pyongyang first."

The staff officer beside him folded the map with a smirk. Rustle. "You predicted Major General Almond's moves to some extent, sir. Looks like the X Corps dragged the North Korean tanks along too."

As the staff officer said, the North Koreans in Sariwon—cut off by X ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Corps—were perfect rats in a trap.

Walker raised his right hand. "Artillery. Fire three harassing rounds over that ridgeline. Too much hassle to get infantry blood on our hands."

Whoooosh—boom, boom, boom. Three 105mm howitzer shells slammed into the ridgeline's waist. Dirt pillars erupted, shaking the ground. Before the smoke cleared, white rags began waving from spots along the slope—torn running shirts, bloodstained bandages, even discarded white socks.

The boy soldiers and peasant conscripts huddled in the trenches descended the muddy slope with hands raised above their heads. Their eyes held no fighting spirit—only hunger, terror, and relief at survival.

Click. U.S. infantry, M1 Garands at the ready, began frisking the prisoners. The 15,000 disarmed soldiers lined up endlessly along both sides of the road.

Major General Kim Ung stood at the front of the prisoner column, pistol thrown to the mud beside Chief of Staff Ri Yong-ho. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

Incheon temporary headquarters, operations room. The teletype clattered loudly, spitting out a long paper strip. Clack-clack, tap-tap.

The duty soldier tore off the strip and brought it to my desk. Black ink bled from the paper, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mingling with the cold office air. I read the dispatch with my corncob pipe clenched in my teeth.

A faint smile tugged at my lips. My judgment to place Almond's speed demon at the vanguard had hit dead center. Instead of wasting time breaching the North Koreans' shallow defenses, Almond blew past them, and Walker swept up the prisoners like a broom.

The advance to Pyongyang was days ahead of the original history.

"Excellent." I tapped my pipe on the ashtray. Tap-tap. The falling ash rang out crisply.